Folie à Deux
by rebeldiamondsx
Summary: Previously "Deception", currently in a revamp. The Joker is like the doctors at Arkham. He enjoys a little... experimentation. Too bad he doesn't realize that he's also part of it. Sexual content, violence, gore.
1. Prologue

**ONE**

**:Prologue:**

_A/N: Revamp time! Hope you guys'll like the change._

TAPE 3, 1215081241, ELIZABETH ARKHAM ASYLUM FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE

_Legal Name_: Rachel Dawes

_Aliases_: Leah Parks, "Lady J", Janice Marmont

_Sex_: F

_Age_: 29

_Observations_: Not dangerous, yet prone to outbreaks of anger and psychosis. Compliance with rules. Believed to be linked to former Arkham resident and convict known under the alias "The Joker".

_Diagnosis_: Former sufferer of Stockholm syndrome and amnesia. Now listed with mild depersonalization, self-defeating personality disorder (diagnosed from multiple suicide attempts, severe depression.)

_Background_: Mother was a maid in the Wayne Manor, father unknown. Conventional childhood. Former District Attorney, close friend of Bruce Wayne. Previously threatened by the Falcone crime family. Believed to have died in explosion set by "The Joker". Marriage records list a wedding to "Jack Mehoff", believed to be an alias by "The Joker". Claims to have one son, father unlisted. Given as closed adoption.

**TRANSCRIPT OF TAPE**

"He had his father's eyes. I saw that when I looked at him for the last, I mean, only, time… He's beautiful. I had never loved someone as much as I loved my son – Harvey. But I couldn't keep him. He wasn't mine to keep. He couldn't know about me. About him.

But I when I looked at his face, when I watched him, I was inwardly be disgusted with myself. He's so much like him, you know. Thick, wavy dark hair; muscular, thin frame; a mischievous smile; a sparkle in his eyes.

The only difference I saw was his compassion and innocence. Opposite of his father, completely opposite, the fucking sadistic bastard. It hurt me to hear Harvey call the other woman 'mom'. So much. I don't think that woman realized how ironic it was that she christened him 'Harvey', when she found him.

Because his father is who he is, I never told anyone who his dad was. That he even existed, really. Hopefully, she hasn't told him that he's not really hers. But he'll know in time. She - his new mother- is a former army wife. A divorcee. And therefore deserving of their pity. But I'm not.

(_muffled sobbing. Audible words include "didn't know", "I was wrong", "lost"._)

It was nice, though. Living on the streets. Being invisible. But the loneliness makes you think. Think about things you don't want to – my dreams, my lust, my escape. How to possibly try and redeem myself. And I'd hear about him. His permanent smile. How the red and white paint would be everywhere, all over me.

How he shot the priest when we got married. _Why_ we got married. Our so-called honeymoon, his version of target practice in the desert.

I didn't realize then it was all 'part of the plan'. It wasn't even... _real_. Why would Gotham's most demented villain, the Clown Prince of Crime, ever take things seriously?

He used me.

It was a joke – the city's most dangerous villain. And me. _Me_! Rachel Goody-Two-Shoes, crime-fighting, law-school sweetheart, ADA Dawes. I was bait. I was a pawn in his fucked-up game of chaos. Threatened Gotham with _me_. Everything was rehearsed. Everything.

I… fucking… knew.

(_Loud bang._)

I-I-I killed that… I killed that side of me, forever. I was a toy then, a slut, a blow-up doll.

I can't do that.. this… anything…

(_Pause of nearly ten minutes._)

I don't know why I'm here. I don't know what I'm doing here. I did nothing wrong. _I did _nothing _wrong_. It's not my fault. It's not my...

I need to start over. _I need to start over_. Can I start over? I don't want anything I said to be used against me. I didn't mean any of it. None of it was real. I'm a liar. I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry. I know no one.

Please, please let me start over. Please.

Hi, my name is Rachel Dawes. I am fucked up. My name is Rachel Dawes. I am the Joker's property. My name is Rachel Dawes. I am the Joker's property. My name is Rachel Dawes. I am the Joker's property. My name is -

(_Audible disturbance. Screaming. The tape ends abruptly._)

**END TAPE**


	2. One

**:ONE:**

_A/N: I'll be posting the music selection for each chapter I write before I start. I recommend listening to "Good Times Gonna Come" by Aqualung for this particular chapter. Also, I'll be taking a few liberties with the script, but it is mostly linear._

"I find myself regarding existence as though from beyond the tomb, from another world; all is strange to me; I am, as it were, outside my own body and individuality; I am depersonalized, detached, cut adrift. Is this madness?"

Harvey's bright-eyed, evil-doer-begone face shone from every television in the city, from posters plastered all over the outsides of buildings, from support banners and bumper stickers in cars and houses.

"I believe in Harvey Dent."

She found the slogan adorable, almost. So true to his beliefs. _She_ believed in Harvey Dent. More than anyone – maybe even Bruce – he could do what the city needed. And he did it without wearing a mask.

That's why, when he was voted into office, swearing to protect the city, she almost broke down crying from the sidelines. Bruce was right. This would be a new era. A new face of justice. He would keep that promise. He would change things, forever, for everyone, and finally clean up their streets. Bring Gotham back to its glory days.

He did what he could to minimalize the press and paparazzi following them, to keep his profession and his personal life separate. He didn't want the details of their relationship plastered across the tabloids.

It was at his post-election party that he publicly confirmed their relationship.

"Thank you all so much for believing in me, for believing in this city. For all your donations, and support, and endorsement. And thank you Rachel, for being with me from the very beginning. I love you."

He'd leaped off the platform and smiled at her, and she could see in him everything that Bruce was not. Honest, simple, and good. And perhaps that was why she loved him so much.

Rachel was a woman attracted to opposites. Without living on the bleeding edge of the extreme, she did not feel safe. Where others would die living, she lived, and thrived.

The night of his election, she stood on top of the railing in their penthouse suite at the Gotham Grand, clutching the side of the wall, looking down and seeing the cars racing by. The temptation to jump gripped her, her hands becoming clammy, the heels she balanced on shaky.

She wanted… to _fly_… for a second.

Finally, she came to, and broke in through herself. She almost fell off in shock. Trying to get back down as safely as she could, she slumped against the glass railings and breathed deeply.

"Fuck."

Harvey came out suddenly. "Rachel?"

"Yeah?" She looked up at him, her eyes wide and lost.

"What the hell are you doing out here? It's freezing. And there's some people I want you to meet." He approached her and offered his hand for her to get up, and removing his coat, wrapped up around her.

His blue eyes turned themselves towards her, and his irises bored into hers. "Are you alright, Rachel? Because I can have you taken home if you're not feeling well."

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. I just had a little too much to drink." She smiled, tight-lipped. He began to protest, but she cut him off. "It's your big night, Harvey. I need to be here with you."

Rubbing her shoulders, he led her back inside. She did feel that Harvey was different – he wouldn't make her a society wife, or make her suffer. He made her happy. But there were times that she'd have to fake it for his benefit, for _their_ benefit. She'd spent the nights smiling and nodding, answering questions about upcoming trials, her "aggressive yet productive approach" to being Assistant District Attorney. And she knew this. Being part of the Gotham government, she'd have to act a little.

But she knew that when she got home, she'd be in Harvey's arms, cracking open another bottle of champagne to toast to his new – _their_ new life together.

So it was no surprise when he'd taken her to Gotham's most exclusive restaurant, right after their eventful trial against Maroni. It took weeks or months to get a table, depending on how important you were, that they ran into Bruce, with a prima ballerina, no less. Rachel introduced the two, and they joined tables.

The electricity at the table was maddening. Between her and Bruce, between her and Harvey, between Harvey and Bruce. The only person blissfully untouched by the atmosphere was Bruce's piece of Russian arm candy, no doubt chosen for her flexibility and icy European looks.

"No, come on – how could you live in a city like this?" Natascha's heavy Russian accent marked her words.

"I was raised here; I turned out okay," Bruce interjected from her side. _If only she knew._

"Is Wayne Manor _in_ the city limits?" Harvey said, brusquely.

Rachel gave him a withering look.

"The Palisades? Sure. You know, as our new DA, you _might_ want to figure out where your jurisdiction ends."

Natascha and Rachel exchanged looks. "I'm talking about the kind of city that idolizes a masked vigilante," she said, ending the battle of the male egos.

"Gotham is proud of an ordinary citizen standing up for what's right," Harvey stated dryly.

"Gotham needs heroes like _you_, elected officials. Not a man who thinks he's above the law."

"Exactly. Who appointed the Batman?" Bruce remarked, with a wry sense of irony.

"_We_ did. All of us who just… stood by… and let _scum_ take control of our city." Harvey's voice shook with anger.

The conversation carried on, Dent growing passionate. Wayne's eyes narrowed, gazing at Dent with interest.

"Well, you've sold me. I'm gonna throw you a fundraiser." Bruce stated. Rachel looked at him incredulously.

"That's nice of you, Bruce, but I'm not up for reelection for three years. That stuff won't start for –" Harvey started.

"I don't think you understand. One fundraiser with _my_ pals, you'll never need another cent." Bruce sat back, arms crossed behind his head, smiling cockily.

This was going to be a long week.


	3. Two

**:TWO:**

_A/N: I wrote this to "Paralyzed", by The Cardigans. Also, this will be very similar to the second chapter of the first version of this story. And after this, no more boring stuff, I promise! I'm bringing on the Jokachel in full force!_

"I know what it's like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in but you can't. How you hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside."

Rachel glanced around her bedroom, the bed sheets still rumpled and the bathroom door open, barely masking the aftereffects of a steam-filled shower. Her hair was up in curlers, her dress still its dry-cleaning bag. She was doing her makeup against her vanity table, littered with perfume bottles and lipstick containers.

She'd watched the news, and seen what the Joker had done. Suspended from the side of the building, hung by the neck… that poor man. The video had scared – and scarred – her enough. Rachel couldn't imagine what Bruce must have been feeling.

"Tell them your name." The eerie voice came from off-screen. The camera shook, almost making her feel nauseous.

"Brian Douglas." The man was sitting, bloodied and beaten, on the floor, blindfolded. A surge of sympathy and shock shot through Rachel.

"Are you the real Batman?" Asked the voice, mockingly.

"No…"

"Then why do you dress up like him?" The voice asked, shaking with anger.

"He's a symbol… that we don't have to be afraid… of scum like you." She had to give it to him. Brian Douglas had some nerve.

"But you do, Brian. You really do. You think the Batman's helped Gotham?" She could practically hear the mocking smile in his voice. She felt literally sick to her stomach now.

The blindfolded figure nodded penitently.

"Look at me."

Brian looked down.

"LOOK AT ME." The camera swung away from Brian into the face of the Joker in his signature white makeup, a smear of red lipstick across his scarred lips. "This is how crazy Batman's made Gotham. Batman's got to go. So… Batman must take off his mask and turn himself in. Every day he doesn't… people. Will. Die. Starting tonight. I'm a man of my word."

She could still hear his screams when she turned the television off.

Crime, and a general state of panic and uneasiness, was rising in Gotham again. And with no motivation. Needless to say, it was certainly not the best time for a party. Especially one thrown by Bruce Wayne. That was the last thing she needed: a room full of Gotham's wealthiest, not to mention Harvey Dent – the guest of honor, with drinks all around. It was practically an open invitation for a crime. And considering the city's current predicament crime-wise, this was a sitting duck. She knew Bruce would have security on lock-down, but she still worried. What if something happened to them? What happened if something happened elsewhere and Bruce couldn't get there?

Rachel still needed to get ready, regardless of how she felt. It was crucial, for her reputation and for Harvey, that she would be there. It was a show of support, of solidarity. And besides, Bruce was her oldest friend, not to mention an ass-kicking vigilante. What the hell did she have to worry about?

She tried to shake off the feeling of foreboding.

She lifted the dry cleaning bag off the couch she had laid it across, and unzipped the side to reveal a devastating little number that Harvey had sent over. A final thanks, read the attached note. She stepped into it, and it fit her everywhere, cascading down her body, sexy but modest. Just like Harvey (and Bruce) liked it.

After she was fully done, twisting her hair into a chignon, she stepped back to examine herself.

The gown showed a tiny bit of her cleavage, not too much to be trashy, but it was certainly there; complemented by cap sleeves. It accentuated her frame and fell straight down from her waist to the floor in a chiffon waterfall. It rustled around her ankles. Her chestnut hair had been nicely bound, and her eyes were bright. She looked... elegant. Makeup hid her tired eyes and she realized she had been dropping weight rapidly.

She'd stopped eating as much as she had used to – her life was just so busy, with Harvey, with her job, with the city in chaos.

A sharp knock on her door jolted her out of her thoughts and alerted her to Harvey's arrival. Rachel swung open the door, gave Harvey a hello kiss, and locked it behind her. He lead her into an elegant town car and the car drove away smoothly, her apartment building slowly shrinking off into the distance.

As they entered, Harvey grew visibly nervous. Wayne, of course, made a grand entrance, arriving via helicopter with a group of barely-legal lingerie models. In true Bruce fashion, he gave a seemingly charming toast to her and Harvey. She ran her tongue across her teeth. He was mocking Harvey! What gave him the right to do that?

Wayne walked out onto the balcony, Rachel trailing him. "Harvey may not know you well enough to tell when you're mocking him. But I do." She raised an eyebrow at him, looking into his eyes.

He shook his head. "I meant every word." Bruce moved closer to her, holding her hands.

"Rachel? The day you once told me about, when Gotham would no longer need Batman… that day… that day is coming."

She bit her lip. She knew where he was going with this, and mentally, she struggled. "You can't ask me to wait for that," she said, with sad eyes.

"It's happening now, Rachel. Harvey is that hero. He locked up half the city's criminals, and he did it without wearing a mask. Gotham needs a hero with a face…" He moved closer still, lines of worry etched into his handsome face.

Harvey made his way onto the balcony and Wayne let go of Rachel. "You can throw a party, Wayne, I'll give you that. Thanks again. Think I can borrow Rachel?" He raised his glass towards her, and they walked inside together.

The next thing she knew, they were pulled off into the corner. Did Harvey just propose? She didn't know what to say. She loved him, sure, and she knew he could give her what she needed in a relationship… but marriage? She looked at the ground.

"I don't have an answer."

The elevator dinged, and Bruce came from nowhere, capturing Harvey in a sleeper hold. "Bruce! What the fuck are you doing?" Rachel asked, indignantly.

Bruce shoved Harvey into the closet, pulling a bar in across the handles. "They're here... they've come for Harvey."

Her eyes widened with shock.

The intruders, whose identities were concealed by clown masks, burst into the fundraiser, armed with guns and knives. Shrieks and worried murmurings were ubiquitous from the well-dressed friends of Bruce. A shot was fired into the air to shut the mass of voices up.

And then, Rachel heard him.

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen-uh. We are tonight's entertainment-uh."

She hid behind the large mass of concerned and scared socialites.

He seemed to be searching the room for something, or someone. And Rachel knew exactly what he was looking for. Her heart skipped a beat in fear. Oh God, don't let him find Harvey. Please, please, please. Let Bruce have saved him.

"I only have one question-uh. Where. Is. Harvey. Dent?" He asked loudly. The Joker's eyes looked straight into the panicked throng and everyone shuddered.

He ambled down a row of frightened, barely-legal women, grabbing a glass of champagne from a startled blonde and gulping it down.

"Do you know where he is? Huh?" he asked to the party-goers, one by one, aiming his gun at them. Only one man dared to look him straight in the eyes.

Oh no.

"You know, I'll settle for his loved ones-uh..."

"We're not intimidated by you thugs!" said the old man, still brave enough to glare at the clown.

The Joker stepped forward. "You remind me of my father," he said, cocking his head slightly to the right. He then pulled a sharp knife out of his pocket. "And I hated my father."

Rachel suddenly had a surge of bravery, and she stepped forward. "Okay, stop."

The Joker turned to him, and she went weak in the knees. His dark, tormented eyes were on her, staring her down, sizing her up.

"Well, hello beautiful." He smiled lecherously at her. Her stomach dropped to her knees, but she wouldn't betray her nervousness. She stood tall, her arms crossed across her chest, a look of fiery defiance on her face.

He walked towards her, combing his hair with his knife. "You must be Harvey's squeeze." She could swear she saw a flicker of jealousy in his eyes, or something more. It was sinister, but she wouldn't falter…

"And you are beautiful." He stood in front of her, grinning boyishly. She could tell that once, he had been good-looking, beautiful even. His frame was athletic and he towered over her.

His eyes ran down the length of her body, and she felt as if she was being x-rayed, laid bare for him to see... It was a feeling she'd never experienced before. She felt chills run down her spine.

"Oh, you look nervous." He cocked his head to the side once more and pointed at his face. "Is it the scars? Wanna know how I got them?"

He pulled her toward him and placed his knife to her skin. His breath washed, cool and fresh, across her face. Their faces nearly inches apart.

Rachel wriggled uselessly, listening to his speech but trying to get out of his grip. "Look at me!" He yelled at her.

"So, I had a wife. Who was beautiful, like you. She tells me that I worry too much, that I ought to smile more... she gambles and gets in deep with the sharks."

She tried struggling again, but was strangely captivated by his story. She saw why he had the following he did. The man was dangerous and magnetic… a deadly combination.

"One day, they carve her face. We don't have money for surgery, and she can't take it. I just wanted to see her smile again! I wanted her to know that I didn't care about the scars!"

Confusion splashed across her features, picking out the faults in his story. This time, she looked into his eyes.

"So I stick a razor in my mouth, and do this," the Joker indicated the scars, "to myself."

More wriggling on her part. So damn useless.

"And you know what? She can't stand the sight of me! She leaves." Anger grew in his voice and his eyes grew wild.

Was this really his backstory? Or was he doing this for her sake? He pressed further into her, his body warm and lean. Her jaw was clenched in frustration.

"Now, I see the funny side! Now I'm always smiling!"

He spread his arms wide, and Rachel seized the opportunity, kicking him in the groin.

"There's a little fight in you! I like that!" He grinned, laughing.

"Then you'll love me!" Bruce burst in, fully Batman'd, and started to beat up the Joker. His maniacal laughter filled the room as they threw punches and aimed kicks, guns firing. Suddenly, the Joker grabbed Rachel, being careful to run a gloved hand around her breasts, as he took her to a window.

"You wouldn't dare!" she hissed.

He smirked at her, running another hand across her breasts, tweaking her nipples. "I would."

Finally he fired a gun at the window, feeling it shatter. He dangled her out it, and she shrieked, looking down at the traffic.

"Let her go!" shouted Bruce.

"Poor choice of words, Batsy..." he sneered, then threw her out the window.


	4. Three

**:THREE:**

_A/N: A little more insight into the Joker this chapter. I'm also deviating from the script a little bit. Hopefully I keep his character very cannon, though. Music selection: "In the City", Kevin Rudolf. So very Joker! _

"Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage."

She was hurtling towards the busy street below, a horrible feeling filling her stomach. She screamed, knowing the fall would crush her. She saw Bruce's black figure going in after her, his shadow covering her and she plummeted towards the earth. He was the white knight; she saw that in his face, and she just hoped he'd be able to catch her.

He'd finally caught her in his arms, shattering the windows of the taxi they'd ultimately fell onto.

She breathed deeply. "Let's not do that again. Is Harvey…?" The rush of falling was still there, her eyes still darkened with the fear of imminent death.

"Yes, he's safe," he grunted, relieved. They were very much alive.

Some sick – _disgusting_ – part of her… enjoyed that feeling. That rising emotion, the sensation of that _almost_. The pain. The fear. It scared her. But that wasn't it. No, it wasn't how it should have been- her dark side tucked away, Harvey still the White Knight, the city at peace and rid of that awful madman.

Neither of them had noticed the ice cream truck speeding away. The Joker was breathing hard, exhilarated with the feeling of success. He touched the blood running down his face with a gloved hand, and brought it to his mouth, enjoying the sticky, metallic taste of success. He looked forward, out the window.

"So, what're you gonna do about Dent?"

"I'm a man of my word…" He replied, grinning like only a madman can. He turned up the music in the car and sung along like a child, laughing and grinning and watching the buildings pass by. He clapped with glee, fingering the triggers of the guns and edges of the knives in his pockets.

"_And they're coming to take me away, ha-haaa; they're coming to take me away ho ho, hee hee, ha haaaaaaa, to the funny farm… where life is beautiful all the time!_"

The city was his "funny farm". He found their (_the collective-uh, Them)_ habits so funny, so _amusing_. Their movie stars and politicians, not to mention _police officers_. No, the Joker wasn't going to let it be that way. _At all._ Well, he _was_ the Joker – a court jester, and entertainer. And he'd cause a little chaos, come hell or high water… And he knew exactly which little bunny he'd start with. He'd seen the fear, the interest, in her eyes, and knew he could fuck with her. And he would… perhaps he'd kill two birds with one stone! Dent, and his _squeeze_.

Rachel had gone home that night with Harvey, the adrenaline of almost being killed turned into an awful sort of eroticism. They'd made love for hours, but she could sense his uneasiness with her lack of answer. She didn't want to face that just yet, _she'd nearly died, for Christ's sake_.

Dent had gone early the next morning to deal with Lau. He was still angry, refusing to speak to her as he left. She'd watched him go, still naked in bed, clutching the blanket to her chest. Eventually, she'd gone to the office, researching the Joker's latest targets with the GPD.

During the middle of the day, she'd gotten a call from Bruce.

"Bruce?"

"Yeah, Rachel… Got a moment?"

"I guess. What is it?"

"I want you to be careful, alright?"

"I'm not exactly suicidal or anything. And besides, I'm looking over his files now. He hasn't targeted me. I would know if he did."

"I know… But if anything happened to you…"

"Nothing will. I promise. You keep careful too, okay?"

"Yeah, alright."

"I mean it, Bruce. What's wrong?"

"Rachel. He's going after Harvey."

She nearly dropped the phone.

"What? I mean… I knew he would… how soon?"

"It's not safe for him."

"I… I have to go, Bruce…" She shut the phone and sank down to the floor, hugging her knees against her chest, sobbing. She couldn't lose him.

Work was monotonous. She knew all her briefs backwards, helping Harvey to obliterate one criminal after another. Elsewhere, the city prepared for the big parade. She was worried, again. The whole department knew the mayor was the next target, and despite his life being in danger, he'd have to make an appearance. She was getting more and more frustrated. _Why was nothing being done? Here we are, busting our asses to clear these streets… and somewhere else, some insane clown is killing citizens for fun_.

"_With no word from the Batman – even as they mourn Commissioner Loeb, these cops have to be wondering if the Joker is going to make good on his threat to kill the Mayor today…_"

The Joker, was, surprisingly, a man of his word. But he didn't care either way. Whether the Mayor died or not – was that really his concern? It was far more entertaining watching the city sweat with fear, _freaking out_ over what he would do. He enjoyed it. Very. Much. So.

So that was why he decided to strip off his makeup and join the fight himself. It wasn't something he often did – he preferred to sit back and watch the world burn. But being in the action was, uh, _fun_ too. He beat the policemen, stripped them of their uniforms, and distributed them amongst his men.

"So, we just… put them on… and join the parade?" A nervous-looking skinny kid asked from the side of the room.

"Yup." The Joker ran his tongue across his lips.

"And what about you, boss?"

He just smiled.


	5. Four

**:Three:**

_A/N: Just working my way through the Nolanverse. I'm trying to make this as atypical as I can. Song: "Procession of the Dead Clowns", Blut Aus Nord. This is a short chapter entirely from the Joker's perspective._

"Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives... I think we're being run by maniacs for maniacal ends ... and I think I'm liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That's what's insane about it."

"And as we recognize the sacrifice of these officers, we must remember that vigilance is the price of safety."

Did this man ever shut up? He stood up there, in his tailored Armani suit, miles from the Narrows and Arkham, he _knew nothing_, had nothing to threaten anyone with, and yet commanded authority. The Joker grinned to himself. He loved showing these schemers exactly what they were dealing with.

And… _there was his cue._ He pointed the rifle directly at the Mayor, and shot, not even checking to make sure he'd made his mark. He already knew someone had gotten its hit – the pandemonium in the streets rose. Where orderlies and citizens had once been standing diligently, they now ran like frenzied chickens (_with their heads cut off too, ha ha ha_) into the street. He dropped his gun and took off after them, disappearing into the crowd so that he could sit back and watch them _go_.

He felt a little strange with his makeup off, his face bared to the world, but that was its beauty – no one could recognize him.

He didn't have time to look back and dwell on the _overwhelming_ success of his actions, unfortunately. He'd watch it later on, on the evening news. Instead, he'd leapt into an abandoned cop car and sped away, laughing while he did it.

Inside an abandoned gas station in the Palisades, he'd been watching _her_, sending his men out to find out her every move. She interested him. A little _fire_ in a woman. He liked that. He also liked that he knew exactly how to put it out.

One of the house phones rang. He didn't give a greeting.

"Boss, she just left the Major Crimes unit." It was the kid he'd assigned to Dawes, a skinny pubescent teenager with a little candy habit. It was amazing how dependent people could become on chemicals, but the Joker had been adding a bit of the fear toxin to the mix, just to see what would happen. Hopefully he wouldn't trip out on the job.

"_Good_. Good, good, good. Find her. And I want her alive, _untouched_."

He could hear the kid's swallow over the phone. "Yes, boss. I understand, boss."

Oh, this was just _too_ _much_ _fun_.


	6. Five

**:Five:**

_A/N: Ah! It's finally getting good. Taking a lot of liberties with the script. "The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning", Smashing Pumpkins. Smut. Don't kill me!_

"Madness is the emergency exit. You can just step outside, and close the door on all those dreadful things that happened. You can lock them away… forever."

She stood outside the apartment building's formidable façade, the sun glistening off all its surfaces. She took it in, and stepped inside.

Alfred was waiting in the impeccable lobby, each surface covered in fine Italian marble. It was understated, but screamed luxury and opulence. _Just like Bruce_.

"Ah, Miss Dawes." He nodded, his smile crinkling the lines around his eyes. "We always enjoy the pleasure of your company."

She smiled demurely back at him. "Alfred."

He led her to the elevator, where the doors spread apart soundlessly. He slid his key into the lock next to the uppermost button, and they traveled up.

"So what brings you here, Miss Dawes? Your phone call was a little… abrupt." Alfred turned to her, concern heavy in his eyes.

"Harvey's worried. He's targeted me next."

There was no further clarification needed. She looked down at the ground and swallowed hard, choking back tears. "Is Bruce in?"

"Yes. He's eager to see you." Alfred reached out and rubbed her back. "Don't worry, Rachel. We're going to keep you safe."

"It's not me I'm worried about," she replied, but was drowned out by the sound of the elevator opening again, this time, to Bruce's colossal penthouse. Alfred calmly walked out of the room, leaving them alone.

Bruce was standing, facing the gigantic floor-to-ceiling windows. Clad in a well-tailored black suit, he looked the part of fancy Gotham playboy. Yet behind his chiseled features laid the mind of the man who single-handedly held the city's fate in his hands. The person who could separate good from evil and ruthlessly went after the evil in the city. He was incorruptible.

"Harvey called. He says Batman's going to turn himself in."

He turned around. "I have no choice." His dark eyes bored into hers.

"You honestly think that's going to stop the Joker from killing?"

"Perhaps not. But I have enough blood on my hands. I've seen, now, what I would have to become to stop men like him." The desolation in his face broke her heart. She knew how long he would have had to think about this decision, and how it was killing him inside.

She couldn't help him.

He came closer to her. "You told me that if the day came when I was _finished_…" He came closer still. "We'd be together."

Rachel smiled sadly. "Bruce, don't make me your one hope for a normal life."

Bruce took her into his arms. "But did you mean it?"

She knew she would have to answer honestly. Looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes, she blinked. "Yes," Rachel whispered.

In response, he cupped her face gently and kissed her softly, the sun letting in orange rays of light around them as it set. Rachel let go of everything in that moment, as his lips pressed against hers softly. She did love Bruce, if she was honest with herself. She loved him just as much, if not more, than Harvey. But Harvey was the _one_. She could not be with anyone other than him. And yet it tore her apart internally.

They separated. Rachel looked sadly into his eyes. "They won't let us be together after you turn yourself in."

Bruce nodded. He closed his eyes. "Then… just be with me… tonight."

"I don't know if I can give you what you're asking me for."

"Rachel, I love you." The pleading in his voice did not escape her, and she knew what she would have to do to free him.

"I know."

He lifted her carefully and carried her over the threshold, like lovers on their honeymoon. The world faded away behind them, stars shining above the Gotham skyline. He laid her across his bed, the downy duvet cushioning her. His hand supported her head as he leaned down to kiss her once more. "Rachel," he sighed against her lips. He made his way down to her ankles, undoing each shoe and taking it off, tossing it onto the rug. She looked at him, his eyes full of an emotion she could not place. His body covered hers as he went to kiss her again.

Bruce brushed her hair from her face and planted soft kisses down her neck. Sweeping open the collar of her shirt, he pressed his lips to her exposed skin. She stifled a wordless cry, closed her eyes, and breathed him in. His expensive cologne filtered in, and she fell harder still into his embrace. He stood up and removed his blazer and waistcoat.

Rachel sat up and grasped his shirt, pulling him towards her. "Expensive shirt?" she murmured.

"Only if you want it to be."

She undid his buttons, one by one, shrugging the shirt off his body and exposing the scarred skin underneath, running her fingers across each one. He held her wrists firmly, and placed them over her head. He unbuttoned her shirt quickly, tugging it out of her skirt. He kissed down the valley between her breasts, her bra concealing all else. His eyes looked up at her, asking for permission to continue.

She looked down at him. "Don't… don't stop."

She pulled herself upright against him as he removed her shirt and unclasped her bra, unzipping her skirt from the side. Lying her down again, he slid her bra off her shoulders.

"Beautiful. You were always so goddamn _beautiful_."

She laid her head against the pillows and closed her eyes. He brought his hands from her wrist and waist, and touched the pads of his thumbs against the undersides of breasts. He brought his mouth to her hardened bud, taking in the flush that had spread across her skin. She moaned then. Bringing his hand to her other nipple, he brushed it devotedly. He switched his attentions to the other breast, hands skimming her sides.

He kissed down her abdomen, and she sighed as cold air hit her, her hair spread across the pillow.

Dragging her skirt down her hips and letting it fall off her, Bruce kissed both hips. She raised her pelvis off the bed, and he removed her panties with ease.

"I love you," he whispered.

She removed his belt and unbuttoned his slacks, tugging them down. The moonlight glinted across his torso, his shoulders and broad chest narrowing down into a v- shape at his hips. She slid his silk boxers down, freeing him.

He placed himself at her entrance. Bruce locked eyes with her and slowly pushed himself in.

"I love you," he said again, as he thrust inside her again. Her body constricted in ecstasy. "I really fucking love you."

"Oh, God. Oh, God." She moaned as he pushed himself inside her again and again, as he touched her where she was begging to be touched. She raked her nails up his back in pleasure. "Faster. Oh, God, faster."

He obliged. She locked her legs across his hips as he went faster and deeper.

"Oh, God!" She moaned louder.

"God… won't touch you… like this." He pushed into her again. "I didn't want anyone… to touch you… like this. I want to keep you here… _forever_, Rachel… and never let you go."

He built her up slowly, spreading her thighs apart and brushing his thumbs against her hardened nub. He went faster, knowing she would break now.

"Oh, God! Bruce!"

"Let go. _Come_."

"Bruce!" She moaned, arching off the bed as they exploded together.

"_Rachel_."

Rachel collapsed onto the bed, naked and glowing. Waves of exhaustion flowed over her. Bruce kissed her forehead and watched her drift off, his scent still clinging to her skin.

He looked at her, the beautiful girl with the sparkling eyes and bigger heart. The girl that would never, ever be his.


	7. Six

**:SIX:**

_A/N: Jokachel. Awww yeah. Also, thanks, Kendra Luehr! "Counting Bodies like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums", A Perfect Circle._

"But you learn to smother the living breathing soul, go deaf to it, and this violence to the self is what is commonly called sanity in the places where I have lived."

Rachel awoke, alone, the daylight streaming in through the windows. Remembering her place, she looked down to see herself smothered by Bruce's duvet. Leisurely picking herself up from the bed and dressing herself, she glanced around. As she zipped up her skirt, a pang of guilt hit her. _Harvey_.

He'd done so much for her – he was her redemption, picked up the pieces for her when she fell apart, and she had betrayed him for a night with Bruce. One night, and she couldn't take it back. Yet she knew Bruce loved her more than anyone ever could. She gave him something he did not have – someone for him to need, instead of Gotham needing him.

The remorse was eating her up. She had to do something; she had to solve the sinking in her stomach. She had to let Bruce know the truth… that there never could be, and never would be, a chance for them to be together. She wouldn't let it happen. Not after Harvey Dent had been her salvation – not after she had been Bruce's. It was an eternal cycle of hate and love, feeding off each other like some complex yin and yang.

But she knew in her heart she could not love Bruce like he loved her. She would become Mrs. Dent someday, and he needed to know that. She could not handle the Batman – he was too endangered, too devoted to his role. Her pain, her truth, her choice… was set now. Rachel knew the agony she'd cause, and she'd have to accept it. So would he.

"Alfred?" She called out through the massive penthouse. He seemed to be gone, along with Bruce. It was early in the morning, she could tell. Glancing at her watch, she noted the time and sighed. Bruce's desk, clean and looking barely-used, lay waiting. Stroking the smooth surface of the mahogany, she grabbed a sheet of his stationary and a fountain pen, and sat down.

_Dear Bruce,_

_I need to explain and I need to be honest and clear—I'm going to marry Harvey Dent. I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him. When I told you that if Gotham no longer needed Batman we could be together, I meant it. But I'm not sure the day will come when _you_ no longer need Batman, and if it does, I will be there, but as your friend. I'm sorry to let you down. If you lose your faith in me, please keep your faith in people. _

_Love, now and always, _

_Rachel_

Her script, thin and wiry, worked its way across the paper. She could still feel the after-effects of their lovemaking… the lingering feeling of Bruce's skin on hers, his virile scent still clinging to her skin. With that, she rose from the desk and walked out into the living room. She owed him the truth, no matter how heart wrenching.

Today was the day. Bruce would reveal who he'd been hiding underneath the façade. The thought scared her a little. He was Gotham's last resort, their _guardian_, and he was giving himself up.

She wanted to support him, and she did—she just wasn't sure if the pros outweighed the cons. The Joker, she knew, wouldn't stop just because Bruce revealed his true colors. He wasn't wired to just seek out a goal. He wanted a concept, some anarchy… not something concrete. She saw that. That scared her more. The _fire_ contained in the Joker scared her, and excited that sense of fear and interest.

"Miss Dawes?"

"Huh?" She was startled out of her thoughts. She turned to see Alfred, with his hands crossed behind his back, staring at her.

"I just thought you'd like to see this." He gestured towards the TV, which he'd left on. GCN was blaring, with Harvey's press conference in focus.

She felt another stab of guilt when she saw his face.

"_But that's not why we're demanding he turn himself in. We're doing it because we're scared. We've been happy to let Batman clean up our streets until now."_

She furrowed her brow.

"… _One day, Batman will have to answer to the laws he's broken—but to us, not to this madman._"

A part of her agreed with him. Giving the Joker exactly what he wanted would not help their case—she secretly expected it to _hurt_ it instead.

Diverting her attention back to the screen once more, she noticed the determined look on Harvey's face; the expression she had come to know so well. That alarmed her—he had something planned.

"_So be it._" Harvey turned to the cops. "_Take the Batman into custody._"

What? Confusion overtook her. Did he already know Bruce was the Batman? She knew Bruce was in that audience…

"_I am the Batman_."

She rose to her feet immediately and the blood drained from her face. What was he doing?

"Why is he letting Harvey _do_ this, Alfred?" Her eyes narrowed and anger surged through her.

"I don't know. He went down to the press conference–" Alfred began, looking just as confused as she was.

"And he just _stood by_?"

"Perhaps Bruce and Mr. Dent believe that Batman stands for something more important than the whims of a terrorist, Miss Dawes, even if everyone hates him for it. That's the sacrifice he's making—he's not being a hero. He's being something more." The wise tone in his voice was meant to calm her, but instead it just ruffled her more.

"You're right," she nodded, "letting Harvey take the fall for this is not heroic at all."

She sighed, holding out the letter she'd written to him. "You know Bruce best, Alfred… give this to him when the time is right."

"How will I know?"

She smiled. "It's not sealed."

She stepped closer to him, and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodbye, Alfred."

"Goodbye, Rachel."

She gathered her purse and coat and calmly descended down the building, letting the doors close behind her as she left the elevator and walked across the lobby to the doors.

A black Town Car was parked out front. She walked calmly towards it. The driver stepped out and opened the side door for her, and she slid across the seat.

The doors suddenly locked. Alarmed, she glanced into the car.

"Hello, beautiful."

Her eyes widened and she let out a scream, silenced only by the purple gloved hand placed over her mouth.

"Atatata, you wouldn't want to scream, princess. Little girls who scream get punished."

She grabbed his hand and wrenched it off her face. "What the fuck do you want?" she spat at him.

He smelled of gasoline and gunpowder, his face covered in days-old white makeup. His eyes, darkened in, turned towards her. His lips, rimmed in red, grinned. He raised an eyebrow.

"Such language on such a little girl." He mocked surprise.

"If you're going to kill me, do it fast. I'd rather not have to be near you long." She sank into her seat, trying to get as far away from him as humanly possible. She was almost shaking in fear, but the tone in his voice made her feel paralyzed, looking into his bottomless eyes.

"But that's not _fun_." His head cocked sideways. "No, beautiful, I'm here to… uh, have a little chat."

"_No._ I don't want any part in your fucked-up games."

"Ah-a. You're so… _predictable_." He glanced at his wrist, as if to suggest she was wasting his time.

Her jaw was clenched, but her eyes were darkening. "You don't know me," she whispered.

"Then _humor _me." He laughed maniacally, clearly pleased with his witticism. "And before you think about launching yourself out of this car, or at _me_…" He grinned. "You might want to reconsider."

It was then she noticed the driver was staring straight ahead, but shaking visibly. She noticed the long hair curling underneath the cap, and the slight air of perfume.

"Who is that?" Rachel looked at the Joker. _Oh, God_.

"That's…" He licked his lips, looked heavenward, and paused slightly. "Janet. She's a mother of two, paying off her father's hospital bills, and has just been diagnosed with cancer. And if you try and get out of this car now, I, uh, assure you, she won't make it home. I'm a man of my word. Now… want to continue our _friendly_ chat?"

Her heart sank. She could not win. She could not find it within herself to kill an innocent human.

Rachel stared at her feet. "What do you want?" she asked, feigning bravery.

"A little time to get to know Gotham's… little… _sweetheart_." He grinned. "Let me guess—cats, Bon Jovi, and looooong walks on the beach, huh?"

She grit her teeth.

"No? Shame. Seemed like I'd hit the nail on the head… _so to speak_."

"What do you _actually_ want?"

He cocked his head again, and leaned in close to her. "Those little _society girls_ that you get forced to spend time around… that corrupted little jail cell – pardon me, desk, that Gordon used to keep you chained to… and even those thirtysomething working stiffs you go out to coffee with… they don't give a fuck about you. And you know that. So then why waste the effort?" The tone in his voice was patronizing, his eyebrow cocked, each point he made complete with hand gestures.

She looked up at him, speechless, just as the car pulled up to a red light.

"Well, Rachel," he said, dragging out her name, "I'm letting you know … I'm _always_ two steps ahead ofyou. Witnessing, and waiting. And I'm not gonna stop… till I get what I want from you."

"You've been watching me."

"Of course not, princess. Just a little _observation_. Like a guardian angel!" He chuckled.

"Why?"

He grabbed her face, pulling her towards him. "It's _fun_." He pushed his lips against her own in a bruising kiss, as Rachel involuntarily melted at his touch, opening her lips to his invasion. She could feel his hands wrapped around the base of her skull, the taste of brandy in his mouth. He was a parasite, feeding off her fear and fascination with him. Burrowing himself inside her. His tongue tangled with her, goosebumps erupting on her skin. He was neither tender nor loving, but she could still feel the layers of need.

Then she reached for him, receiving nothing but empty air, feeling the loss of him at her lips. And when she opened her eyes, the only thing left was a Joker card.


	8. Seven

**:SEVEN:**

_A/N: Updates might be slower now; just a warning. "Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me", U2. A wonderful Joker video on YouTube featuring this song that inspired me to choose it. Check that out! Joker-perspective; deviating from the script. Reference to a Sohodolls song._

"…The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn…"

Oh, God, it just made him feel so good, so, so good to see that _delicious _look on her face the minute he'd broken away from his molestation of her lips. He'd liked the fact that his lipstick – his _taste_, would be all over her lips and in her mouth. Her hair would be everywhere. And her face would be so _adorable_ – confused, angry, and flushed. Wonderful. Maybe she'd even smell like gasoline, if he was lucky. The thought made him giggle a little as he disappeared onto the sidewalk.

He knew he'd created a little, uh, chaos in her nine-to-five life. And he was loving it.

She was still sitting in the car, looking confused as hell. The asphalt was crunching underneath his feet. He fixed his suit as he walked, enjoying his moment of flamboyance. Looking around, he saw that he was in an old part of the city that had been all but abandoned. The buildings were crumbling, the windows smashed in, and an eerie look around.

He decided he liked it.

The automobile was right where he'd wanted it to be. Delightful. Some_one_ had decided to get their, uh, act together. He ducked into the alleyway – the buildings dark and looming above him, and climbed into the vehicle. He'd allow himself time for some well-deserved enjoyment once he'd _settled down_.

Hansen, the driver, nodded at him once he was inside the truck. He hated them, the trucks – he hated them for being shiny and decorated and bigger than him, but once he was inside them and moving it didn't really matter anymore, as long as they'd take him where he wanted to go.

Hansen was an old bastard – resembled an older version of Ed Gein, he thought, _but frailer_. Wore glasses too, big coke bottle ones. The Joker smirked. He'd always been a fan of serial killers. He collected their stories: Albert Fish, Charles Manson, the Zodiac killer. The way teenagers felt about obscure bands he felt about murders.

_How, uh, macabre._

He didn't view himself as a serial killer – didn't you have to be, ah, _crazy_ for that? He wasn't out to seek revenge, or to kill young kids so he could fuck their corpses. Not even killing for their social security checks. And least of all, God and the Baby Jesus fairies weren't coming down in some hallucination to convince him to do their bidding.

Ah, God. He'd been told by several people, ranging from raspy last words from recently carved mouths to self-righteous Arkham psychoanalysts that He'd play a part at some point. But the Joker liked to see it the way it was. God adapted a do-nothing form of therapy. You told him your problems and He, uh, did nothing.

He always laughed when somebody, usually with blood draining from their mouths and ribs, eyes bloodshot and faces flushed in pain, tried to tell him that he'd "never get away with it", that "God was always watching". Of course, last words were always amusing.

The Joker saw conversation as a double-sided mirror, of sorts. You knew exactly what was on the other side, but you couldn't read it clearly. The Joker preferred to be "excited and hyper and clappin' and just making noises like he was excited". This was going to be fun.

Dialogue was so funny. Some people went years without uttering a single word. Others could talk for years and never shut up. Monks and meth addicts both had a certain level of dedication in common, he thought. Dying words could be insightful ("I die hard but am not afraid to go."), pathetic ("…Water."), or downright _hilarious_ (his personal favorite: "I'd hate to die twice. It's so _boring_.").

The Joker didn't have that niggling sense of self-preservation. _Death wasn't _boring_, death was full of fun, happy moments!_ There was nothing better than examining every expression on their face, or feeling their blood dry, sticky and sweet, on his skin. He had noticed that blood had the same consistency as dried soda. Wasn't that… funny?

_Why is a raven like a writing desk?_ Alice in Wonderland, Joker in Gotham, same thing. Both innocent people in a guilty world… He had theories about the illicit drug use going on in both situations, but he'd have to save that for later. He believed in _carpe diem_, and he wasn't content with just _seizing_ the day. He was going to _conquer_ it.

The city whizzed by. He saw it like a canvas taken up by some dirty eraser marks lining the side. They could be brushed away easily, but he wasn't concerned enough to try – there were amusing things in the city: white knights, bats, and little bunnies, oh my!

In the meantime, he had been watching. Of _course_ they'd pull a cover-up. Dent was as much the Batman as the Joker was a fairy princess. There was no way that all-American, Yale graduate yuppie kid was a caped, husky-voiced crusader.

He briefly wondered if there were any crazy, fangirly Batman groupies. The thought of a bunch of screaming girls chasing after _his Batsy_ was sidesplitting.

The GPD building came into view. _Brilliant._ Everything was falling into place, just like he wanted it to. He knew Dent was inside, about to get transferred. He also knew Harvey's bride-to-be would be there, trying to support her, uh, man.

They had, he wagered, twenty minutes to wait. Ed Gein, Sr., pulled out a cigarette and lit up, exhaling smoke out the window. The Joker took the time to examine his knives – sharpening them, cleaning them. He treated them better than most people.

Pulling his walkie-talkie out of one of his numerous pockets (sometimes he reminded himself of a stereotypical ticket hustler, _ha ha ha_), he pressed the button. "Find the package, and deliver the goods. Be careful. It's very delica_te_, and we wouldn't want anything to _happen to it_, now would we?"

He could hear the henchclown's intake of worried breath.

He ran his tongue across his teeth as he watched the proceedings. Police cars, a SWAT team, an armored car to transport him, and a promise of backup on the way. _Jesus, why don't they just bring in the fucking army?_ Still. The chase would be even more fun, as well as the end result. He didn't plan, he just had a _goal_, and he was smart enough to know how to achieve the goal.

The walkie-talkie bleeped again. "The package is exiting the building now. Do you want me… t-t-to…" The fear in the kid's voice was evident. His speech, still adolescent and young, went up a couple octaves as he tried to spit out the rest of the sentence.

The Joker sighed, almost like an annoyed parent, and smacked his lips. "Ah, yeah. And no _touching_."

"Move." He gestured towards the driver, and pulled himself out of the passenger seat to the back of the massive truck.

Some generic radio station was playing in the background – a sexualized female voice, he picked up, and some pop background.

"_Teacher says that I've been naughty; I must learn to con-cen-trate._"

From the side, he could see the Camry pull up. The navy blue paint and black tint successfully made it unnoticeable and completely private. Threats worked well when it came to getting things like this made.

The truck pulled to a halt at the red light, as the police escort, SWAT team, and armored car paused momentarily. He slid back the sliding door along the truck as the Camry door swung open.

Dawes, blindfolded, gagged, and thrashing, made her way out of the car, pulled by the henchclowns surrounding her like bodyguards to a popstar.

"_Don't you want to hold the gun? Don't you want to… bang bang bang bang bang bang bang…_"

Yes, he decided. He really wanted to.


	9. Eight

**:EIGHT:**

_Fun chapter. No smut yet, but on its way. "Switchblade Smiles", Kasabian. Sorry for the delay! Definitely deviating from the script._

"Where do they teach you to talk like this? Sell crazy someplace else. We're all stocked up here."

The world was black, but she could feel their rough, gloved hands on her. It made her skin crawl. How did she get from kissing her fiancé goodbye to being kidnapped by a bunch of clowns? He wouldn't, couldn't leave her alone.

"Be careful with the merchandise! Boss says you can't hurt the package," said a voice from her left.

_Merchandise?_

Her chest was tight. Her mind was racing. She was struggling wildly against their hands, and she could barely register the scent of cigarette smoke and burned rubber around her.

_He's going to kill me_. That was the only reason he'd been dragging her towards this hell. He wanted to bring her down to his level before he murdered her. Blind panic filled her up and her logical mind switched off.

She had to get out of here, no matter the cost. He would not get her.

"Hey! Stop fucking moving. We're not supposed to touch you."

"But wouldn't I like to…"

She bit at the gloved hand covering her mouth and screamed again, her anguish muffled considerably.

"You're almost there, princess."

Her feet were dragging along behind her as she heard a slam behind her. Her blindfold was cut off, exposing her to blinding light; the hand removed from her mouth. She gasped for air as her eyes tried to take in their surroundings. Her knees fell to scratchy, well-worn wood paneling.

Rachel's gaze fell to a pair of well-worn brown dress shoes, leading up to plaid green socks and two purple pant legs.

_He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me and drop my dismembered corpse at the bottom of the GPD building. He's going to make it so fucking awful for me… _

Her eyes skidded along the rest of his dirty, blood and sweat-stained suit. His eyes were sparkling, his mouth and its horrifying permanent grin up in that insufferable smirk… She even caught the stubble peeking out from underneath his white paint. That disturbed her. He didn't have _stubble_. He was the Joker. He couldn't have to do something as pedestrian as shaving.

"Missed me?" He grinned. Oh, god damn him. She wanted to launch herself at him, claw at him, punch him until he bled from every orifice for making her suffer the way he did. For replacing her ennui with chaos.

"Fuck you! Let me go!" She screamed at him, her breathing raggedy and her eyes feral with anger.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, last time someone used that phrase, you ended up in a very, uh, _compromising_ position." He licked his lips and turned his head to the side, mock-innocently. He had stretched out, leaning against the walls of the compartment, which she now noted was moving.

She was still on her knees on the floor, hands bound together. She turned around. All of his henchmen were facing the wall, hands clamped over their ears, per his instructions, she assumed. Like children sent to time out.

Charming.

"You know, I like you on your knees." His eyes were dark and he smiled with the excitement of an overweight six year-old in a candy store.

Rachel faced the overwhelming urge to roll over and cry, but she tried to break through the flimsy layer of tears on her eyes and glare.

"What do you want?" She asked calmly, betraying the knot in her throat.

"A nice blowjob and a glass of brandy, but given our current predicamen_t_ I don't think that's feasible. I'll settle for the next best thing."

She was beyond the point of being offended or shocked at his brazenness. She was beyond the point, if she was specific with herself, of any comprehensible thought other than _give him what he wants and run as far as you fucking can, as fast as you fucking can_.

"What's that?" Her voice was still shaky.

"A choice."

The confusion in her eyes obviously gave her away, but instead of looking at her, he looked around, surveying his environment. He briefly noted the spider webs attached to the ceiling and the dampness around him.

"Would you rather die, or lie?"

"The cause," she managed to croak out. "It depended on the cause."

"Clarification, okay, smart girl… Either I blow you and your beloved's brains out, or I let you fake a death and let the world decide if Mr. Dent gets to survive to see another sunny, beautiful Gotham day. It's an ultimatum, see?"

"If I choose to die… does Harvey have to die too?"

"I wouldn't be a man of my word if he didn't."

Her heart dropped to her stomach. _I can't believe I'm even considering this._ "And if I choose to lie?"

"Then you become my property. "He was surprised. He'd always assumed the girl had a martyr complex, but wouldn't expect her to keep a little self-preservation. Unexpected. And the Joker was rarely ever surprised.

Suddenly, a noise broke her out of her trance. A henchman had broken into giggles, trying badly to contain himself, his feet stomping into the ground with visible glee.

The Joker rolled his eyes. "Disobeying orders, Johnny? Time out for you." He raised a gun, which Rachel had realized he had been carrying the whole time, over to the henchman's direction, and shot.

She noted that he had perfect aim, catching him directly in the back of the head, even leaving a clean hole in the wood when his body had crumpled to the ground.

Rachel took a sharp intake of breath. She hadn't expected that, to say the least. Her heart had skipped a beat when the shot had been fired. She had just watched the Joker kill a man, and yet had done nothing to stop him. Granted, a man that had undoubtedly done horrible things, but a man that had been someone's son, someone's neighbor, someone's friend. Guilt sank into the pit of her stomach.

She could not idly sit by and do the same thing to Harvey even in an attempt to preserve justice. She could not kill the one man she loved most in the world.

"If I lie… what do I have to do?" _This is for Harvey. This is for a chance of keeping him safe; for keeping the spirit of Gotham alive. For preserving the good side_.

He tossed a tape recorder at her – _how fabulously old-school_ – retrieved from one of his numerous pockets, flashing her another one of his switchblade smiles. "Just _talk through your problems_," he said dryly. "Tell him you don't have much time. Tell him you're sure they'll save him. Tell him to not worry about you, that it's too late. Tell him you…" he paused momentarily, "_love_ him. Tell him it's not his fault."

"What?"

"Press record now. I want to hear you say it, all of it."

With one hand clenched in a fist, and another wrapped around the tape recorder, she spoke, desperation plainly on her face.

"Harvey… Harvey, I – I mean, we… don't have much time. He's going to kill one of us, Harvey, but they're going to save you. You are hope for Gotham. You are hope for everyone. It's too late for me. I love you. Don't blame yourself for me, okay? It's not your fault. I love you. I love you. I love you."

The recorder clicked off. Tears washed down her face, as if she was trying to drown herself in her own sin, trying to find absolution for this abomination she had just made.

The truck came to a stop. His voice became uncharacteristically monotonous, as if he were shooting off a grocery list. "I have some unfinished business I need to attend to. For obvious reasons, I can't just let you go. My wonderful _team_ here will make sure that we take the best possible care of you."

After she felt the ropes being cut away from her, she stumbled to her feet, trying to steady herself. She stumbled off the truck onto the sidewalk, again being supported - if you could call it that - by his henchmen, a blindfold over her eyes. She could hear his voice, regaining its usual mirth as the truck sped off.

"Don't worry about it, Rachel! The fun's not over yet!"


	10. Nine

**:NINE:**

_Sorry for the delay. If this seems a little abrupt to you, go back and reread the last chapter - I made a few adjustments so I could take this story in the direction that I wanted it to go. Enjoy - Joker perspective next chapter. Song selection: "Eat Me, Drink Me", Marilyn Manson. _

"He always saw her as she was, without disguise, and watched her on the dangerous way that she was going."

The static flickered in front of her. She was in a room full of screens, a VCR wasteland. Even the ceiling was not spared from the flickering technology, an old black-and-white TV nailed above her head. From her position on the floor, the view around her was limited.

Her head was throbbing and body was splayed across the concrete floor unceremoniously. Her skirt was wrinkled and her shirt askew, but she did not seem to have undergone any harm. She picked herself from the floor, sitting down and hugging her knees toward her chest like a nervous child.

Her shoes, once prim and proper, were now worn, raggedy, and covered in dirt. Her stockings had been torn, holes eating away at each other, threatening to expose her to the world. Her ruined clothes only made her trepidation rise – her pride was still fighting its war against her practicality. She was in a war with her head and her heart, with each side ready to lash out against the other.

Taking a leisurely glance around, her rational mind noted that it was a small room, appearing to be a surveillance room. A door stood opposite her, most definitely locked. Another door was a few paces to her right – unlocked. There was no light, other than that of the screens. She picked herself up off the floor. Staggering to her feet, she felt the blood rush back into her body. Had she really been unconscious for that long? She struggled to remember what exactly had happened. Massaging her temples, she stumbled to the unlocked door.

Opening it cautiously, the light was dim inside, but illuminating enough to show a bathroom, stripped to only the bare essentials. _No shower_, she noted. The tiles were clean, surprisingly, leading up into a standard-issue porcelain sink and toilet. Besides its necessities, it also held a roll of paper towels, soap, and toilet paper. She looked at the mirror. Her face, covered in shadows, looked almost demonic in the light – dark, ravaged, scarred. She looked like _him_. Revulsion rose in her stomach. _Afraid of my own reflection_, she thought, _I've hit a new low._

She felt like Alice in a fucked-up Wonderland. Her movements, slow and deliberate, were hampered by her morbid curiosity. Inquisitiveness sated, but with her spirits quickly sinking, she closed the door and ventured back into the main room. It was, save for the TV nailed to the ceiling, just a normal security surveillance room.

So then why was she, of all places, dropped here? Surely he was trying to prove a point. Maybe that she was being watched? She leaned absentmindedly against the door frame. Panic began to bubble up in her throat. How long was she going to be here? Did anyone know she was gone?

Forcing herself to take deep, calming breaths, she sank down into the one concession of comfort the room allowed for – a rolling chair, placed adjacent to the wall of screens. Glancing at the desk in front of her, which ran lengthwise below the monitors, she sank down into the seats. Too tired and hungry to begin her usual course of panic, she ran her fingers along the bottom of one of the displays, collecting dust with her thumb. Each screen was the size of a fifteen-inch laptop screen, its surface bulging out from the wall.

Above the path her fingers were creating in the grime, the Joker's face flickered onto the screens. His face filled each monitor in its damaged black-and-white glory. She jerked back in surprise, her hand flinching away. He licked his lips and grinned at her. The overall effect was more than eerie, hundreds of darkened eyes watching her from every corner. Dozens of lips moved in time to the sound being pumped in from overhead.

"If you're watching this, Princess, clearly my monkeys have been doing their jobs properly, assuming you haven't been seriously injured or psychologically scarred _yet_." He laughed, his voice tinny and distorted over the overhead speakers. "I have a little _exercise_ for you. I want you to see Gotham like it really is - beyond the black and white. I know you'll be able to see beyond what you know. I have, uh, _faith_ in you, dollface. I'll be back sometime. Don't disappoint me."

Her blood boiled. She could almost feel the hatred emanating from every pore. She refused to play along with him. She refused to back down and give in. The fire in her eyes was unmistakable. She didn't know when he would be back, but when he did come, she would not break down without a hell of a fight. That much, she could be sure of. If she gave into him, she'd be no better than the army of brain-dead evildoers that blindly accepted his word as law. She couldn't fall down to that level. She knew that she would rather die.

Her mind reasoned with her. _Maybe he's trying to show you something_. Even though he was clearly trying to prove a point - and knowing the Joker, his points never warranted any goodwill - he hadn't injured her. She was, apart from her clothes, unharmed and, as far as she knew, safe. Her fate when he came back, however, was of infinitely more concern. She had no idea what would become of her. Would she be raped? Killed? Otherwise harmed? Would he use her to find the Batman?

And what would happen in the meantime? Would more people die while she was locked up in this technologic prison, leaving both them and her helpless and pliable to his will? Her mind roved in circles, her thoughts gathering together in a jumble and swarming around in her skull like a crowd of angry bees.

The screens flashed to black, and then each took on a life of its own, displaying different corners of Gotham. Intersections, traffic lights, the insides of stores, busy coffee shops, they were all laid in front of her… conveniently missing time stamps, she noted. The exact time and date had been left out of the tapes, leaving her with only the slightest hint of her bearings.

She slid back into her seat, her back crumpling against the chair. She tucked her legs beneath her, fingers tapping impatiently on the wooden table. "Beyond the black and white"? What could he be referring to? Clearly he wasn't speaking literally...

Eager to give her mind a rest, Rachel settled back, pushing her chair away with her feet. Her eyes came to rest on a screen depicting a quiet alleyway. The lighting was dim - nighttime. A woman, scantily clad, walked quickly down the alley, her back to the camera. She was fuzzy, but Rachel knew that she was frightened. A man came behind her, following in close pursuit. He grabbed her from behind, an indistinguishable object in his hand. His arm was pressed against her throat. Rachel's breath hitched. The woman was pressed against the wall, her face against the pavement, while the man felt his way down her body. Rachel felt sick to her stomach. Her eyes swam in indignant tears, the bile rising in her throat. She was being raped, her small skirt being pushed up to her waist. Rachel felt the woman's fear and pain even through the static.

Unable to handle any more, she ripped her eyes away and looked to the next screen, depicting a small elevator in what she assumed to be an office building. The elevator doors slid open, letting in two women, dressed in business suits, with their hair up in chignons. As the doors closed, they inched closer together. When they were secure in their temporary privacy, they pressed up against each other. Their lips met in a passionate embrace, and they melted - their two bodies melting into one.

Rachel felt awkward watching - she felt like a peeping tom. Still, she was fascinated by the two. Even through the grain, she could see that they were so wrapped in each other that it was almost raw.

Biting her lip, she looked to the next screen - it was the inside of a women's bathroom, showing just the sinks and the mirror. A group of women were gathered at the sinks, some applying makeup, others talking on cellphones or washing their hands. Two or so women huddled at the sides, standing in lines to gain access to a stall. Slowly, Rachel watched as the women shuffled in and out of the bathroom, their numbers slowly dwindling. Soon, the bathroom was empty. Rachel watched as a girl entered, shuffling through the door. She carefully checked each stall, locking the door behind her to ensure her privacy. Once she was alone, she stood, stationary, in front of the sinks. She was simply staring into her reflection. Rachel imagined her eyes to be glassy and red - she filled in all the details with her mind, captivated by the screen. The girl in the bathroom, after two more minutes of waiting, raised her hand to her mouth, parting her lips to let her fingers in. Going down her throat, she forced herself to throw up, leaning over the sink so only her back and hair were visible.

Rachel cupped her chin in her hands, her eyes focused on the girl in the video. She didn't know her story - whether she was bulimic, or simply feeling ill - or who she was, but she suddenly felt like she could relate. Rachel could almost smell the Lysol-laden scent of the bathroom, could almost hear the sound of stale air pumping through the vents.

Her eyes skimmed over the other screens. Two men having a heated argument outside a house. A busy intersection. A homeless man sitting outside on a curb, shooting up. An empty school classroom. The hallway of a dorm room, with students rushing in and out, some carrying liquor, others carrying books. A hospital waiting room, with a woman hunched over and crying.

Rachel saw these glimpses of Gotham. She saw the pains and the joys of the citizens of her city, she saw all the forgotten moments in time that she ordinarily would have never had experienced. She was seeing - like he said - beyond the black and white. But what she saw scared her. She couldn't peel her eyes away from the screens. Her pupils darkened in as she saw these unsuspecting men and women, leading lives that would all amount to nothing in the scheme of things.

Realization dawned on her. She had been watched like this, through monochromatic shades and grainy surveillance tapes. He had been using them to track her every move. The only sense of fear in her mind, though, was that he had perhaps caught Bruce. But she knew that if he had, the Joker would have already taken any chance to take him down. She reassured herself with that thought, repeating it over and over in her head like a mantra. Bruce is safe. Bruce is safe. Bruce is safe.

And what was the Joker up to now, anyway? Was he chasing the Batman? Blowing up a building? When would he be back? What would he do when he did come back? Was he going to hurt Harvey?

Harvey. His name shot a stab of loss and pain throughout her body. Her sacrifice would keep him safe, she hoped. She knew it was useless making deals with the Joker - everything with him was only a game - but she had to, had to protect him. After betraying him, and sleeping with Bruce... her guilty conscience was only cleared by the knowledge that hopefully he would be unharmed. Would he be told that she was dead? She wondered how Gotham would react to her death. She knew, especially after his proposal, that Harvey would have died for her - she saw it every time she looked into the blue depths of his eyes. His dedication laid with his city and with her, and now he would have to focus on keeping his city safe. Rachel hoped that he would not be dissuaded with the news. She loved him... she loved him enough to give him up, and even though every synapse in her body fired at the thought of escape from this hell and running straight back into his arms, she knew that it was for his own good.

Her body was giving out now. She could feel it. Rachel was dehydrated, hungry, and cold, and she could not hold on for much longer. Her head pounded, her mouth dry and her skin dry. As the world turned black around her, she could have swore she heard his voice...

"Hello, Princess. Didja miss me?"


	11. Ten

**:TEN:**

_Author note: This is one of two (or perhaps three) Joker-filled chapters. I hope you're ready. "Burn", Nine Inch Nails._

"Guns are neat little things, aren't they? They can kill extraordinary people with very little effort."

The officer's eyes narrowed, slowing the car as he spotted something burning in the distance. Was that... a burning _fire truck_? What the hell was that doing in the empty streets at this time of night? Overhead, the helicopters buzzed above it like flies to cheap meat, investigating. The damn thing was blocking the road, too. He had to change his game plan. Batman or not, the DA had to be delivered safely, or all hell would break loose.

The radio crackled as he lifted it up towards his mouth. "All units, be advised. All units will exit down Cheviot west and proceed north on lower fifth avenue."

A few cars down the road, the driver regarded the radio with apprehension. Turning to the passenger seat, he flashed a look of confusion to the SWAT next to him. "Lower 5th? We'll be like ducks in a barrel down there." Shaking his head, he pressed down on the pedal, the car disappearing down the exit ramp.

The convoy rolled down the subterranean streets. Inside one of the cars, Harvey Dent sat, shaking his leg with impatience. His mind was reeling with the gravity of the decision he had made. The whole world now thought he was the Batman. Was the sacrifice really necessary, he thought, or had he just made the biggest mistake of his life? Would fooling the citizens of Gotham into thinking their silent protector was gone make their lives easier? Or was it sheer deception? His morality was being held up to the light and tortured by his common sense. He was now confronted with the reality of sitting in an armored car, handcuffs on, surrounded by SWAT team members - all of which had been present at his election a few months earlier. It was funny, the way the world worked - the way that fate could change a person like the flip of a coin.

Suddenly, he felt the car jolt forward. "What the hell was that?"

The officers looked around in alarm. "We've got company back here..."

The Joker's hair whipped in the wind, the metal of a machine gun heavy in his hands. Adrenaline flooded through his body like the purest heroin, flooding his brain with endorphins. He smirked. _This_ was his opportunity. As the SWAT car entered his field of vision, he cocked his head. Showtime, it seemed, was imminent. The driver of his car effortlessly glided its way through the support columns of the tunnel and into the oncoming lane, pulling up beside the armored car. Standing in the cargo hold of the truck, his feet firmly planted on the ground and excitement in his heart, the Joker felt in his element. Licking his lips, the cargo hold flooded with light as the door was jerked backwards. _Finally_.

With a spray of bullets that would make Schwarzenegger proud, he fired, making dents -_ get it? Dents?_ - all along the side of the vehicle. Under the horrified stare of the SWAT officer, he threw down the machine gun and picked up an RPG - ready to bring a bit of heat into the fight. Surveying the scene, he noticed a flash of black in the distance.

Could it be? The Batmobile, in its physical form, just ahead? The Joker was filled with the glee of a fourteen year old boy looking at a Victoria's Secret catalog. Amusement took hold of him.

One of his thugs sounded up from behind him. "Is that him?"

Oh, this was just too good. "Anyone could be driving that thing. Stay on Dent."

He raised the RPG, ready to fire. The armored car slammed back, braking, scraping, and squealing just enough to sound like a little girl in a playground, as the first grenade slammed into the squad car ahead, bursting into flames.

Pressing forward, the armored car kept going. _Ah, so they wanted to play_. He needed another grenade. He turned to his men, ready to reload. "Do me up."

After the RPG was placed firmly in his hands once more, he leveled it and took aim. He always was a skilled marksman. He briefly wondered if he'd do just as good with a sword. He had to remember to try that out one day.

He fired. The Batmobile burst forward, taking the full hit of the grenade. _Shit, that was fast_. So he had come to play, huh? Well, he was going to make this a fun night for them both, then.

As debris flew in all directions, hitting his driver square in the skull, the Joker giggled hysterically as he was thrown around the rear of the trailer. The Batmobile laid, destroyed, in his sights. The truck squealed to a halt, and he jumped out, walking to the driver's seat. His eyes drifted over the Batmobile's wreckage. "Well, whoever he is - he ain't now," he muttered sardonically. He opened the door of the truck, pulling the dead and bloodied driver out, jumped over his body, and jumped in himself.

He needed to take control of this situation. Pulling back onto the roadway, he followed in hot pursuit of the armored car as its driver frantically tried to gain backup. The Joker's eyes narrowed with concentration_. Time to tango._

He followed the car up a ramp, heading up. A chopper dipped low overhead, its wings reminiscent of an insect's wings. Ahead, a cop pulled out an assault rifle, ready to defend. The Joker rolled his eyes_. A gun and some helicopters. Some competition that was_. Turning to the thug next to him, he licked his lips. "Rack 'em up. Rack 'em up, rack 'em up, rack 'em up!" The thug nodded in understanding - _something_ had finally gotten through his thick skull - and reached for the radio. Up overhead, his henchclowns weaved a lattice of cables - a spider web to capture the flies. The Joker chucked to himself as the helicopters got caught in the cables, oblivious to his little trap.

He now had bigger fish to fry. "Take the wheel, kiddo," he motioned to the massive thug next to him. He reached for his new toy - a pretty, sexy little submachine gun, all primed and ready to roll. He licked his lips.

Above, the thug noticed a shiny black motorcycle emerging from the alley in a cloud of fire, skidding sideways impossibly, getting nearer and nearer to him. "Hey, boss?" He looked towards the Joker nervously.

"Hmm?" The Joker looked over. He raised an eyebrow in response. So the real Batsy had decided to show up to his little soiree. How nice of him. "Guess it _was_ him."

As the Batpod sped closer and closer to them, it fired a harpoon directly at the truck and impacted low, below the bumper. The thug, alarmed, ducked, and came back up grinning - "He missed!"

The Batpod, however, continued on beyond the truck. A cable emerged from the harpoon, now embedded in the truck, and the Batman wrapped it around a lamp post. The cable went taught, flipping the truck over. The Joker grinned with the thrill of it, his stomach churning as the truck turned end over end. He tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth as the truck stopped flipping. He opened his eyes, pain throbbing all throughout his body - a warm, comforting, familiar feeling - and crawled from the wreckage. His fingers wrapped around a pistol and he staggered to his feet. The stench of burning rubber filled his nose.

_So, Batsy liked it rough._ Well, rough was just how the Joker liked to give it. He jumped over the median, watching the Batman gun the motorcycle, riding it up and over the median. The Batpod was now hurtling towards him. He was so, so ready, spraying bullets randomly at the traffic in the road.

"Hit me. Come on. Hit me," he challenged. He was so fucking ready to taste it - he felt the excitement spread in his body. He spread out his arms in a silent gesture of invitation. He was going to fucking take it.

The Batman, to his disappointment, stalled the brakes, the bike skidding to the side. He slammed into the wall, falling off the bike. The Joker's thug raced ahead, determined to get to the Batman's unconscious body. He pulled at the mask, jolting back from an electric shock from the suit. The Joker giggled. How cute of him to put that feature in. Oh well, he'd have to do this the old-fashioned way. Cocking a switchblade and crouching, the breath caught in his throat, this was the moment he had been waiting years for...

"Drop it."

Fucking hell. "Just give me a second," he pleaded.

The gun was cocked. The Joker dropped the switchblade. It clanged against the asphalt. He looked back – the armored car sat patiently. The man standing over him is its driver. He pulls off his helmet.

It's none other than Jim Gordon, back from the dead. _Jesus fucking Christ_.

"We got you, you son of a bitch."


End file.
